


PHIL

by krakenmak



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), mcyt, philza minecraft - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krakenmak/pseuds/krakenmak
Summary: The immortal origins of Philza Minecraft.
Kudos: 5





	PHIL

**Author's Note:**

> this is completely made up and not canon at all lmao i just thought about it and wanted to write it
> 
> i also have an idea about the nether related to this concept so perhaps more in the future?  
> i also did not proof read this whatsoever. ignore my mistakes - i'm not an english major.

A god among men, a hero above all else.

He stood proud over a mass grave of slain warriors, all cold long before he arrived.  
Living as a boy amongst them, he worshipped the gods just as they had. Respectful, kind-hearted, and cowardly.

When men fought the gods, they expected to overthrow them as if a government ruled the skies. They expected a glorious yield of power and divinity, only to receive a ticket to visit The Devil himself.

They fought out of greed, out of spite, out of boredom – ignorance.

Their hearts froze over and they hardened themselves so that no god could interfere with their plans of rebellion, whether they were gentle or not. They geared up for months, trained for years, just to run into flames of Hell and the eye of a hurricane.  
Pathetically unprepared.

Within the battalions was none other than Phil, who had trained what felt like his lifetime for this war. Clutching his lives, he ran screaming into battle, heart pounding and pouring sweat. Fear. He felt fear. Never like this before.  
Phil was screaming in the face of the gods he so highly praised. The gods he was taught to praise before he could speak. A shield and sword would never be enough to fight the mental battle. It felt like the most sinful betrayal – and what was the reward?

In mere minutes, he was slain.  
Slain by the gods of fire and retribution.

The war flooded in popularity as well as blood.  
Men continuously conscripted and pulled by greed and meaningless upset, throwing their ten cents into an empty well.

The war spanned for years with no clear end other than the eradication of humanity.  
It would never cease unless every soldier laid deceased in a field of thorns and shame.

He was urged to try again.  
He begged them to let the gods win. Put down their weapons and call it a mistake – pray the gods forgive their endless sins.

They refused. They found humour in Phil’s ever-cowardly ways, surprised that he even fought at all. After being mocked for weeks, he picked up his sword and shield, took a deep breath, and faced the gods with a brave façade.  
The gods were not fools.

One last shot.

A final life to cling to.  
Ever-so-fragile.

Yet Phil decided he didn’t want to die so soon.  
He realised faster than his battalion – his ‘comrades’ – that the war was quite literally unwinnable.  
He planned a final battle.

It took months to prepare; he hadn’t kept track of the war’s life-span, that would be pointless in the end.

He picked up his sword and shield a final time.  
His battalion fell that day.

One by one, another set of blood on this mere mortal’s hands.  
Guilt ripped him apart, but it was for the greater good.

Once all was said and done, the final men standing were torn from their bodies by the reaching hands of the damned.

He walked to the coast.  
He reached the sand.

Drenched in blood, he waded out into the water.  
Step by step, the water rose from his ankles to his waist to his chest.  
Finally, he submerged.

Before letting go, he prayed the water beside the holy land would save him of his irredeemable sins. He prayed the water would wash the blood off his hands – both visible and emotional.

As he sunk down towards the ocean floor, the tides pulling him to and fro, he finally relaxed his tensed muscles and released himself of pain. He had done the right thing. Although he could not live with what he had done, it was the right thing.

Before the gods whisked him away, they struck the surface with bolts of lightning and the tides dragged him towards the skies.

Not so fast.

Weightless, Phil was pulled to the clouds, birds surrounding him in flocks. The sun returned and the world was painted in vibrance after years of storms and fire. The dark clouds poured into Phil as he levitated in the air, sprouting wings as dark as the night and as wide as a Phoenix.

They had granted him immortality.

“I cannot live with this guilt!” He cried.

The gods denied his grievances.

“You are a brave warrior, Phil. You shan’t die at your own hand. Your courage shall last centuries and stars forbid anybody forget you and your legacy; you still have work to do.”

Just like that, he fell from the heavens and swooped down to the sea, catching himself in the air as he tumbled with the newly-earned skill of flight he had been gifted. He flew above the rubble of cities and temples, watching as civilians cautiously scuttled out of their barely-in-tact homes. They watched him with amazement, their eyes shining with the pride Phil had given them. They would finally live in peace; without war.

That is the conclusion of Phil’s first of many chapters, solidifying him as a hero to all men, a saviour to humanity, and a god amongst the men he forced to perish.


End file.
